That silence of the body

To our coma. The coma of life is permanent. Rigid hours. Flabby skin Inert muscles. Bones lie. Outside sources are enlivened. They harass. Suffer from stimuli. Eat off time. It lies in the immobility of space. The doors are expected, the shining of the next sheet. Calls without picking up with the inaudible voice. Run away from what? Of the body. Of the enviable birds. From Hell without fire. Of decay. Of the lover of silence. That silence of the body. No screams or words. Neither sound nor music. Of said absence.

Sense, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.